The Galloping Ghost | Page 3

in upon the other's oily speech. "My
father owes you nothing."
"Consider," the other persisted. "You are on a narrow island within a
bay. The water of the bay is icy cold. You might swim it in safety,
though I doubt it.
Should you succeed, it would be but to find yourself upon a much
larger island. That island is fifteen miles from the nearest mainland, a
hundred from the farthest. Can you swim that, or row it even if you
should find a boat? Ah, no. The waters of this great lake are terrible in
their fury. And Superior never gives up her dead."
There was something so sepulchral about these last words that the
listening boy shuddered in spite of himself.
"On such an island there are people." The girl's tone was stubborn,
defiant.
"There is no one." The tone of the speaker carried conviction. "In
summer, yes. In winter, no. We are here alone."
"Then," said the girl, "I shall stay here until summer comes. Winter will
soon be here. And 'if winter comes,'" she quoted, "'can spring be far
behind?' "

"Very far."
There was a quiet cadence in the speaker's tone that sent chills coursing
up Red Rodger's spine. At the same time he hardly suppressed a desire
to shout:
"Bravo!" to the girl.
The closing of a door some seconds later told him that this was a cabin
of at least two rooms and, strangely enough, between these rooms was
no connecting door.
CHAPTER II
WHISPERS IN THE NIGHT
AS Red Rodgers stretched his feet out before the tiny stove in his
narrow room, his brow wrinkled. Here was a situation for you! A
football game to be played to-morrow four or five hundred miles away.
He laughed a silent, mirthless laugh.
"Football," he whispered. He was surprised to find within his being a
certain feeling of relief. He relaxed to the very tips of his toes.
"Football." He had seen a lot of it. Too much. This was his first year on
the varsity. Almost without willing it, or even realizing it, he had
become the central attraction of his team. He was the hub about which
the offense circled. His had been the power and the glory, the power to
dash and beat, weave and wind his way to many a touchdown, the glory
of the victor.
"The power and the glory." Little enough Red cared for glory. But
power? Ah, yes! All his life he had striven for power, physical power
for the most part. But he meant in the end to go forward, to succeed in
life.
Born and raised in a city of mills, he had, from the age of fourteen,
played his little part in the making of steel. For three summers and at
every other available hour he had toiled at steel. Bare to the waist,

brown, heat-burned, perspiring, he had dragged at long bars, raking
away at steel bars, but recently formed by rushing, crashing rollers, that
were still smoking hot.
Other hours he had spent on the gridiron. The one helped the other.
Struggling with steel, he had become like steel himself, hard, elastic,
resisting. As he went down the field men were repelled from his
Robot-like body as they might had he been a thing of white-hot metal.
And then had come his great opportunity.
A quiet, solidly built man, with wrinkled face, bright eyes and tangled
hair, had watched his high school football exploits from the sidelines.
From time to time he had beckoned and had whispered: "Hold the ball
closer to your body. Lean. Lean far over. Don't run for the sidelines.
Break your way through."
There had been an air of authority and knowledge not to be questioned
about this old man. Red had listened and had tried to follow the other's
teaching.
Then, one day during his senior year at Central High the old man had
touched him on the arm and had pronounced magical words:
"The university will need you."
Red had thrilled at these words. He knew now, on the instant, that this
was the "Grand Old Man" of football, the fairest, squarest coach that
ever lived.
It had been good to know that the university would need him, for long
ago he had learned that in his upward climb he would need the
university. The university had found him. He had found the university.
In his freshman year, a cub, there had been bitter days and hours of
triumph. But why think of all that? With a restless motion he rose, took
three step, the extent of his cabin, retraced them and sat down. "Like a
beast in a cave" he muttered low. "I'll not stand it!"

He thought soberly: "No, this is not to be endured. Better the hard